One day， over coffee in the cafeteria， I got him on the subject of women and how we need romance in our lives； how we love to get sentimental cards and love letters.
"Do you tell Connie you love her？" I asked (knowing his answer)， and he looked at me as if I was crazy.
"I don't have to，" he said. "She knows I do！"
"I'm sure she knows，" I said， reaching over and touching his hands rough， carpenter's hands that were gripping the cup as if it were the only thing he had to hang onto. "But she needs to hear it， Bill. She needs to hear what she has meant to you all these years. Please think about it."